


you outshine the morning sun

by rad_sad



Series: i'm dedicating every day to you [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Barely any dialogue, Daddy Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, as you can tell i have no idea how to write dialogue, hamilton is younger, mostly feelings, not me, will i write more who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8731000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rad_sad/pseuds/rad_sad
Summary: the boy who managed to say a word that pierced more than any bullet through General Washington





	

**Author's Note:**

> god i love watching george Suffer

**i.**

The boy loved to write.

George liked to muse that maybe the quill was sewn to Alexander's hand since there was hardly a time he was seen without it. The candle light was burning low, hinting that maybe it was past time to retire but it seemed that once Alexander put his pen to paper, there was no stopping him until he was satisfied with what he saw. George would have left him to it if it were not for the fact that should he return in the morning, Alexander would have not have moved a single inch from where he sat. 

The boy's hair was in disarray, brown strands falling from where they were tied back, curling beneath his jaw and ears; his face was placed so close to the page that he was scribbling on, George almost thought his nose was pressed up against it. Alexander sat where George would usually sit, his coat draped around his thin shoulders to fight off the cold breeze drifting in. Whatever George had been reading (the words made little sense and his tired brain could not unscramble the letters) was placed back on the table, stretching his legs by standing not too far from Alexander and out of range so the boy could not see the General surveying his profile.

Despite Hamilton's insistence that he had reached the age of 21, George refused to believe it; he even wanted to laugh when Alexander had told him. The boy's face was still smooth cheeked, not a single scruff of hair in sight on his tanned jaw. George's own stubble was beginning to itch but he could ill afford to shave during a time like this. Alexander was thin and smooth faced, still not quite yet grown to his full height. The coat he wore was usually rolled up at the sleeves so that they would not inhibit him while writing, mostly because the cuffs slipped past his knuckles, far too large for his frame. If George were to guess, the boy was still only in his late teens, maybe at the age of sixteen or seventeen.

The light of the candles flickered shadows over Alexander's face, dancing and stretching across the plain of his forehead and jaw. The dark tanned skin and brown hair made George briefly indulge in the rumours that would make their way to his ears; maybe Alexander was really an illegitimate orphan, no family to account for. He had heard countless other whisperings, one including how Alexander was  _his_ son. George had almost laughed at that, a bitter and rough sound that bubbled at the back of his throat. Not a single word about his past or family ever fell pass Alexander's lips, usually too busy fidgeting with the hem of his coat or sweeping behind the loose curls of his hair. 

George turned away from his thoughts, trying not to get too caught up in the mystery that was Alexander Hamilton; he knew enough and would not press for more. The boy was hot-headed, his mouth too big for his body and not enough sense to know when to shut up. George still remembered when he had first laid eyes on the boy, how he stood almost slumped, his shoulders hunched, a polar opposite to Burr who was dressed more finely than Alexander and who would have definitely been easier to work with.

And yet...

Martha would have surely laughed at how doting George was, however limited he could be considering their situation. The boy was too young to be ready to die, eyes far too eager and excited whenever he would talk of battle with George. Sometimes it amused him; more often than not, it didn't. Alexander was simply too young to fight, despite his insistence that he most certainly was _not_ too young. And, unfortunately, it never slipped the notice of others of how fond George was towards the boy.

Once again, George turned away and decided that sleep was much needed.

"I think it is time for us to retire," George announced, placing his attention to the bottle of amber liquid that was practically begging to be emptied. The scratching of the quill didn't end.

"Of course, sir," Alexander spoke, his voice hoarse from not being used in a long time. Sometimes, Alexander's voice would crack from not yet settling, like most boys would. Another hint that the boy was nowhere near being the age he said he was. "I only need but a moment before I finish this, your Excellency."

A sigh bled past George's lips as he placed the glass down in front of Alexander (the smallest amount possible he could give the boy - George remembered the first time he had given the boy a drink and how Alexander's face scrunched up in disgust; the memory was still as amusing as the first time) who quickly ushered it off the papers lying around it, afraid that a single drop might spill and ruin his masterpieces that were scattered around in disarray, with only Alexander being able to make sense of anything. 

"You have been working all day, son, you should rest. I would not have you collapse from exhaustion." The shadows beneath Alexander's eyes were like bruises, purple and angry.

"I must send my reply to government as soon as possible, sir," was Alexander's reply. "I would not have them think we have failed to fight should they not hear from us soon. They write and write, telling us to attack the British. They sound so idiotic, repeating the same thing over and over."

"Alexander," George warned him, the underlining of  _watch your tone_ hidden in the four syllable word. It was something George had learned to master from his time around the boy. Still, Alexander did not place down the quill or stop the words spilling from his mouth.

"They have no idea of what our conditions are like, sir," Alexander continued, bitter and an unrelenting force. "While they wine and dine, we are forced out in the cold with little resources."

"It is a war, Alexander," George replied coolly, slipping the rest of the drink past his lips. It caused his throat to burn, a good burn, one George needed to remind himself that yes, he was alive and yes, there was hope yet.

"Try telling that to  _them_ , sir. From how they write, you'd think that it wasn't," Alexander bit, his writing becoming more frantic and the scratching of quill on paper becoming more irritating.

"They are simply scared, son, as are we all." It was the first time George had admitted that outright and part of him wished that he could pull the words back into his throat, unheard and unsaid. Instead, he drained his glass.

"I'm not scared," Alexander mumbled, pausing a moment to rub his knuckles against his eyes. The action reminded George of when Patsy would do the same when she was younger, fighting a yawn as a mumble of  _i'm'na t'red_ would slip past her lips. An ache bloomed in George's chest at the memory, all the while watching Alexander mimick it, trying to rub the sleep from his bleary eyes. Alexander had never looked so much like the young and frail boy George had always, secretly thought of him when he would see him holding onto a gun like it was simply another type of pen, only instead of ink and words, there was blood and pain.

"Everyone is; fear is nothing to be afraid of," George told him, marvelling at the feel of the clean cut, cool diamond glass beneath his fingers; _so fragile that one misstep and it would shatter._

"Fear is something we can ill afford, your Excellency. Fear leads to doubt and doubt leads to hesitation and if you hesitate, then you could die."  _Clean cut and cool._

George was tired, too tired to deal with Alexander should he get fired up. Once the spark was fanned, the fire would burn and eat its way through everything. George placed his back to Alexander again, wondering if he might indulge himself in another glass. "What is it that you have replied?"

An easy subject, one that might bring Alexander down from the hill made up of arguments and anger he was climbing. "It's almost these men don't know what fighting a war takes. They keep saying that we must attack the British forces, despite my insistence that we have neither manpower or resources to do so. I decided to enlighten them on the going on's in our camp, of how our men are falling as quickly to sickness as they are to bullets."

It was no lie; George had seen a man lying face down in the dirt not too long ago, long passed from an illness unknown. Alexander wrangled a hand through his messy hair. More curls spilled free.

"I do not know how many times I have been forced to write the same words over and over again in response to their dullness and idiocy - pardon my wording. I have requested for assistance yet they have not replied to my asking, no, my  _begging_."

George listened, quietly, the scratching of the quill against the paper, a dull sound becoming less annoying and more soothing. It reminded him that the only battle Alexander had to fight was with words and that he was safe behind a desk.

"I've tried telling them of the happenings on the battlefield but it appears that war is useless as the soldiers fighting them for politicians. Good news is, however, that they have relented to my urgency on the matter of our rations; it is the only good news I offer, Father, along with - "

George's heart stopped.

The glass nearly fell from his grip, almost mimicking the way his heart dropped from his chest and into his stomach. The scratching of Alexander's writing didn't stop, neither did the words spilling from his mouth. George stared at the boy, the boy in clothes too big for him, the boy whose hair was a mess of brown curls.  _The boy who had just_ -

No, a trick. The lack of sleep. The stress. The liquor. The - _the_ -

The glass didn't break, he caught it. It was in his hand and Alexander didn't stop talking and George felt as if the world was swept from beneath his feet. No bullet could pierce as deeply as the single two syllable word that slipped past Alexander's lips. George was not a man who was over come with emotions, not a man who would let himself be swept away by a wave and yet, here was this boy, this young boy, as barefaced as he was clever, managing to crack George in half with a  _word._

A lump in his throat as George stared at Alexander, wondering if maybe this was a figment of his imagination; the boy without a father had called the man without a child -

If only Martha could see him now.

George couldn't breathe, couldn't ignore the tightness of words clumping at the base of his throat as he almost wanted to croak out the word  _son_ that seemed like the longest and hardest thing in the world to say right there and then. Words continued to tumble out of Alexander's lips, almost unaware of what he had done. An unconscious slip, one that should George bring up would result in Alexander's embarrassment or anger. 

No, it was best to say nothing. To let himself relish in the moment that the boy felt exactly the same towards George as George felt towards him. If George had less pride, he would have cried. He gathered himself, gathered the pieces of him that had fallen apart and placed the glass down, the  _clink_ being the louder than the canons that would crack across the world around them. 

"... finish early tomorrow, if that would be alright with you, sir. Sir?" Alexander turned around, eyes bleary and focused on the General who tried desperately not to fall apart again. George cleared his throat, standing up straighter as he gave a small smile towards Alexander, a smile that could never capture the blinding happiness that burned within him.

"Or course, son. Whenever you are able." George stepped forward and placed a hand on Alexander's shoulders, the boy turning away to gather up the mess of papers, his drink lay forgotten on the table. George's grip slipped from Alexander's as the boy slipped his arms through the coat, one of the cuffs back to its original length at Alexander's knuckles. His hair was a mess and he tried desperately to smother a yawn. George remained rooted to the spot, watching as the boy whirled around, a hurricane picking up pieces of paper all around him before turning to the General in front of him.

"I'll leave you be; good night, sir."

"Goodnight, son."

Alexander turned away and George was alone.

The quill was instantly between his fingers as he scribbled _Dearest Martha,_ at the top of a blank page, almost feeling like a giddy, young man again as he quickly jotted down what occurred, not wanting to wake up in the morning and believe it was all a dream.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need more alexander hamilton and george washington fics to grow into a healthy human being 
> 
> i need more healthy father-son relationships please

**Author's Note:**

> all hammie wants is a dad leave him alone


End file.
